


Flashpoint

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Angry Sex, Angst, Conflict, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more than one storm ahead for Boyd and Grace... Set somewhere between the S6 episodes "The Fall" and "Double Bind". Complete. Enjoy!<br/><br/><i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashpoint

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Flashpoint**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

Idiosyncratic weather. Unusually hot and sultry for early-September, the distant rumble of thunder rapidly becoming not-so-distant as the inexorable storm approaches. Far too sticky and far too humid for the sweat unpleasantly dampening her back to even begin to evaporate as she marches angrily up the grassy slope. Consciously, Grace is heading towards the tumbling ivy-clad stone folly that is only just visible from the big country house that looks down on the wide lake and the dark, tangled woods beyond it. Unconsciously, she is simply getting away from _him_. Getting away from two hundred pounds of jeering hostility endowed with the scruples of an alley cat and the uncertain temperament of a rattlesnake.

Things have rarely – _never_ – been so bad between them. Not once in all the time they’ve worked together, regardless of her sharp tongue and his quick temper. It seems there’s more than one storm coming. Only a fool could fail to realise that, and despite her seemingly-endless capacity to forgive and forget even the worst of his transgressions, Grace Foley is no fool.

The warm air seems to be impossibly thick. Heavy and oppressive. Glutinous, even. The first few raindrops that start to fall are large and weighty, splattering on impact as if they are composed of a far more viscous fluid than mere water. There’s going to be a deluge of biblical proportions at any moment, a veritable monsoon that will hit with startling speed and ferocity and may well depart just as quickly, but if it helps clear the warm, soupy air then Grace is glad. She secretly wishes on the oncoming storm even as she finally reaches the questionable shelter offered by the ridiculously pointless and inappropriate tower. A Georgian pseudo-Gothic status symbol, alarmingly and brutally phallic in the aggressive way it rears up from the surrounding pasture.

Seconds later the rain arrives in earnest, hurling itself furiously at the ground in an unbroken rhythm as the bass notes of thunder start to draw much closer. In response, the tall, besuited man pacing by the lake abandons his restless prowling and breaks into an uphill sprint. He runs like a reflection of the storm – powerful, relentless, and without elegance. Grace watches from the dry ivy shadows, neither pleased nor displeased by the speed and inevitability of his approach.

Boyd slams into the small space next to her, breathing hard. He couldn’t berate her if he wanted to, a minor blessing. He is wet. Soaked, even. The pale grey suit jacket, turned dark by the rain, is stripped immediately and unceremoniously. The white shirt beneath is wet, too, and it sticks to his skin, sculpting him into raw antagonistic lines of muscle and bone. Too loudly, he declaims, “Fuck’s _sake_ …”

“I _told_ you it would be prudent to head back to the car.” She knows her words aren’t helpful, knows they will only inflame his temper even further, but nowadays she can’t ever seem to summon the immense level of patience required to pander to him.

He glares at her, dark eyes inimical. “Thanks, Grace. Really, thank you _so_ much for that helpful insight.”

She shrugs, goes back to watching the steel grey clouds as they descend. The rain is beating a continuous tattoo on the ground and on the outer stones of the tower, an incessant drumming that speaks of vehemence and intensity. The air temperature has dropped a little, and she’s grateful for that, at least. Next to her, the laboured breathing has become lighter and steadier but the sense of animosity forcibly prickling at her hasn’t lessened. Nor does she imagine it will. Just recently every delicate truce declared between them has been a brittle one, difficult to negotiate, and far too easily shattered.

“So,” Boyd says, the word a gauntlet thrown down between them, “this damn book of yours…”

“…is _still_ none of your business.”

“It _is_ if it’s going to attract nutters like Lucien-bloody-Calvin,” he growls back.

It’s just an excuse to pick yet another fight, Grace knows. She doubts he has any real interest in her latest work although his insatiable curiosity has almost certainly driven him to read at least some of it. She wonders if he has enough self-awareness to recognise himself in some of the only thinly-disguised references scattered throughout the many pages. Possibly, possibly not. Exhibit A from _The Laws of Love and Rage_ – a difficult, damaged man who loves and rages without caution or restraint. She sighs, making quite sure he hears it. “I’ve written several books, Boyd, and as far as I’m aware _none_ of them have been an issue until now.”

“So you admit that there’s an issue?”

He’s a natural predator, designed to pounce hard and fast on any weakness, any hint of an opportunity, but predators of any variety don’t scare her. “Not at all. Don’t twist my words.”

It’s meant as a warning and Boyd obviously takes it as such from the way he scowls and doesn’t offer a rejoinder. Belligerent he may be, but he isn’t stupid. They both know that in a straightforward war of words she will always win. Sheer volume is no match for eloquence. The continual noise of the driving rain lessens the savagery of the sudden silence between them. Enough, at least, for Grace to risk a covert sideways look at him. His jaw is tight and set, and he is glaring at the wide, deep lake at the foot of the slope. She almost feels sorry for him – their relationship, personal and professional, is deteriorating rapidly, has been for the last few months, and it’s a fair bet that he doesn’t understand why. Hell, half the time she isn’t sure she really knows the reason herself. She certainly doesn’t know why he’s taken to so frequently needling her, ridiculing her, treating her as if her opinions and expertise are worth nothing.

_What changed?_ she wants to ask him, but she won’t. They are a long way past the point where doing so might have opened a halfway productive dialogue between them.

He says, “If there’s going to be a conflict of interest every time you – “

“Oh, come on,” Grace interrupts, both irritated and incredulous, “that’s not only unfair, it’s completely ridiculous.”

“Is it.” It’s not a question.

It used to be fun, a harmless game of clever, witty one-upmanship between them. Partly banter, partly idle flirtation. It’s not like that anymore. The digs are sharper, the words harsher. She shakes her head. “This is pointless. Maybe you get some kind of kick out of continually trying to belittle me, Boyd, I don’t know, but I’ll tell you something for nothing – it’s getting incredibly tedious.”

“Tedious?”

“You heard me,” she snaps back in response to the undisguised sneer in his voice. “ _Tedious_. Predictable. Boring.”

“Boring,” Boyd echoes, the word elongated for effect, and something about the way he does it makes Grace look at him. Look at him properly. The dark eyebrows are drawn down and the expressive eyes beneath them have taken on the familiar cold, antagonistic shine that almost always precedes a furious explosion of temper.

“Oh, forget it,” she says. She’s not afraid to argue with him, but she’s already endured more than enough conflict for one day.

“ _Boring_ ,” he repeats, and that’s when loud alarm bells really start ringing inside her skull.

He moves fast – very fast – but it’s not his speed that startles her, it’s the unrestrained strength with which he seizes hold of her and forces her back against the folly’s uneven stones. For a brief second she thinks he’s going to strike her – a foolish and unworthy thought – but the reality of what he does is almost more shocking. Boyd doesn’t strike her, he kisses her. Hard.

It’s not possible, but it’s happening. They’ve never been in such close physical proximity before, but his hands are unbreakable shackles around her wrists, his beard is wiry and coarse against her skin, and his lips and tongue are insistent and impatient, forcing a primitive response from her – one that for a split second Grace has no conscious control over. He’s kissing her, and then, heaven help her, she’s kissing him back with just as much wanton enthusiasm as all sorts of unanticipated sensory feedback rampages along her central nervous system towards her brain. He smells of coffee and cologne, of fresh sweat and the unforeseen storm that’s still gathering force all around them. She isn’t really aware that he’s released his grip on her wrists enabling her to twist her fingers hard into his hair. Only when he moves his mouth to her throat and bites does a tiny hint of reality assert itself.

She yelps in surprise, not in pain, and the thin sound – negligible against the constant loud drumming of the rain – triggers an unexpected reaction. He doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t pause, but against her skin he mutters hoarsely, “You never let up… Never stop fucking criticising… You always think you know best…”

It’s a harsh litany of bitterness and reproach, but even if the hand that’s kneading her breast is impudent and rough, Boyd doesn’t come close to hurting her. His other hand is descending, travelling rapidly down over every curve until it settles on her hip. It feels so damned good to be touched by him, astounding though it is, yet somehow Grace is almost more aware of his hot breath on her neck than of anything else. Hot, and humid, just like the afternoon before the rain started to fall. He grinds his hips against her and her focus shifts instantly as she realises just how aroused he is. Aggressively, desperately hard, as if they’ve been flirting and teasing for hours. Maybe they have, in some dark and twisted way that only they could ever begin to understand.

He kisses her again and this time Grace is ready for him. More than ready, and quite prepared to engage him in some bitter, perverse battle for dominance. If Boyd is surprised he doesn’t show it, and her determination to match him, even to attempt to best him, only seems to encourage him. For a few seconds their lip-locked embrace is nothing short of open warfare, but somehow they simultaneously segue into something that’s just as fervent but considerably less violent. Battle lines drawn and recognised, they agree some kind of attempt at chivalry and civility without a single word spoken. It remains a heated tangle of lips and tongues, but without such a high risk of bloodshed. Figurative and literal.

_Is this what changed?_ an oddly calm voice in her head wonders. _Is this why things started to go so wrong between us?_

Too much subtext. Too much unacknowledged and unresolved tension crackling dangerously between them at inappropriate moments. Attract and repel, feint and parry. Too many incompatibilities, and far too much mutual desire. Insanity.

He’s much stronger than she imagined. Muscle and sinew bold and brash under the damp shirt as he manoeuvres her further back into the still dry alcove without ever releasing her. Big, too. Not just tall, but solid. Grace couldn’t break away from him if she wanted to. She doesn’t want to. Her heart is pounding, her pulse is racing, and the part of her mind that is screaming ineffectual warnings at her is very quickly overwhelmed by the keen arousal coursing through her body. Suddenly she’s eighteen again, a wild and immoderate creature that’s both unafraid and uninhibited. Too many years of denial, too much suppressed need. She goes for his throat, for the vulnerable hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. He tastes of soap and sweat and salt. The first of his shirt buttons surrenders to her, then the next, and she follows the tempting path of newly-exposed skin with her tongue. Smooth. Warm. Real. He growls in response, a thick and lascivious sound that registers low in her stomach.

Light summery clothes don’t feature heavily in her professional wardrobe, but today is an exception, a purely pragmatic choice made in reluctant deference to the third day of the unseasonal heatwave that is choking the south of the country. Today there is very little between her bare flesh and the strong, restive hands that roam in search of ingress, and before she can capitalise on her advantage Boyd has stormed her meagre sartorial defences. She hears herself make a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper, but then his palm is flat on her bare stomach and heading lower. Grace lifts her head, soliciting another deep, urgent kiss, one that helps hold all the terrifying, accusing thoughts at bay. His hand slips between her thighs and this time there is no question – the sound she makes in response is definitely a whimper, muffled by the kiss and simultaneously stolen by the deluge.

He draws his head back slowly, their lips taking an agonisingly long time to part. She stares up at him, dazed with lust and bemusement. His eyes are burning, full of an uncanny dark fire that makes her stomach lurch again. “Wet,” he says, his voice sounding unnaturally deep, and not for one moment does she think he’s referring to the rain. Another stomach lurch; high arousal and a tiny kiss of embarrassment.

In return, she grasps him firmly through the expensive fabric of his suit trousers, not too prudish to make an instant and positive judgement on the promising size and girth of him. Defiance and desire, a heady mixture. She feels the answering twitch. Deliberate or involuntary? Grace can’t tell. Her voice is almost as rough as his, but higher in pitch. “Yes.”

She doubts it’s at all the response he was expecting, but it seems to meet with his approval. Maybe he understands that here, in this tiny, surreal moment of time that they have created for themselves, he has rather more to learn about her than he ever anticipated. Much to learn in not very much time. He’s a quick study. They both are. She doesn’t know if she’s surprised or not when he drops his hand from her breast to his belt buckle and deftly unfastens it. Matter-of-fact, not at all bashful, even when he briefly tilts his head a fraction in silent query.

It stops here. Right here, right now. Or it doesn’t. Either way, it’s too late to make things go back to the way they were before the first raindrop fell. His hand is still between her thighs, slick fingers now moving gently, almost lazily as he watches her, and she’s still exploring the rigid, arrogant contours under her palm that emphasise just how tempestuous and impetuous he really is. Bridges burned to ashes, boundaries smashed to pieces. No way back now whatever the answer to the unasked question. She snags his zip, tugs it down in one presumptuous motion. Answer given. Boyd inhales sharply enough for her to hear it, and the wild look returns to his eyes. He withdraws his hand and immediately lifts her off her feet; she’s confused until she feels the smooth, cool ledge of stone against her buttocks. Not quite sitting, not quite leaning, she’s perfectly positioned for him to bunch her skirt up around her hips, perfectly positioned to shift her weight to allow him to more easily remove her knickers. Completely exposed to his gaze, Grace shivers. Apprehension and expectation.

Boyd fumbles with his fly, freeing himself from the restrictive cloth, and she’s disappointed by the brevity of the only glimpse she gets of his impressive erection before he closes the gap between them again. As she grips his shoulders, the chill now gone from the wet material of his shirt, she can certainly feel what she can’t see. Hot, hard, every bit as domineering and impatient as the rest of him, but there’s finesse, even tenderness, in the way he positions his hips, eases himself between her thighs and rocks against her to provide a satisfying friction that very quickly becomes smooth, slippery, and far, far too tempting. So good, the gliding, shifting contact that momentarily leaves her unable to focus on anything else.

“Open your eyes,” he commands, and Grace does so, almost surprised by the colourful reality of everything around her. It doesn’t occur to her not to comply, not at that moment. She’s staring straight into his deep brown eyes as he reaches between them again and flexes slightly at the knee, seeking just the right angle to determinedly press himself into her. A moment of resistance – deliciously and briefly painful – and then she feels her body start to accept him, inner walls stretching to accommodate the slow, blunt invasion. Boyd grunts, the sound so base, so full of primitive pleasure that she’s filled with a savage joy and satisfaction. It’s hers to give, that wild intensity of feeling, as much – if not more – as it is for him to take. He braces hard, forcing steadily against the muscles that still defy him, and she whimpers, not in discomfort, but in pleasure.

Leaning in, she bites his neck again, the salty taste of sweat much stronger now, and it’s the free-spirited, defiant young woman that still exists within her that rises a second time to mutter one simple demand close to his ear: “Take me.”

He does. Every bit as quick and hard as she expects, their bodies merging into a single molten creature that moves as one, every strong thrust given and taken with mutual fury and satisfaction. The rain keeps up its relentless tempo, and so does Boyd, the sharp delineation of the braced tendons in his neck testament to the huge effort sustaining the furious pace requires. His bullish strength is both frightening and exhilarating, and Grace makes the most of it, legs locked around his waist, hands roaming over his shoulders and upper back in urgent exploration as she tries to commit everything about the solid, muscular feel of him to memory.

“Love and rage, Doctor,” he grinds out, hoarse and breathless. “Since you’re such a bloody expert, tell me – which is this?”

It’s a direct challenge, an angry, frustrated challenge, full of a bitterness she doesn’t understand, but just as she’s unafraid of him, so is she unafraid of the truth. She’s breathing fast herself, but she manages a ragged but resolute, “ _Both_.”

To her surprise, the simple, intense retort stills him, gentles him, and for split-second they stare at each other without exchanging a word. Despite the noise of the rain, it’s a moment of quiet sanity in the midst of what can only be described as utter madness. Boyd reaches up with one hand, and she’s disconcerted by how very tender he is as he touches her face, just the very tips of his fingers brushing against her skin. There’s something in his eyes Grace can’t interpret, something that’s weary, vulnerable, and just a little haunted, as if he’s seeing something in his mind’s eye that’s concealed from her. His voice is every bit as soft as his caress, and it holds a melancholy edge that sends an unexpected chill through her. “Oh, Grace… _Grace_.”

Almost fearful – for him if not for herself – she asks, “Boyd…?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t withdraw from her body and leave her aching for him, but there’s limitless pain and sorrow in the ways he says, “This… It’s not the answer, Grace.”

She doesn’t often credit him with such acute perception, not when it comes to interpersonal relations. She’s not foolish enough to imagine that he’s oblivious to just how bad things have been getting between him, but not for a moment did she ever expect him to address the situation, not even obliquely. The only reply she can offer is a bleak, “I know.”

He starts to move again, deep inside her, but something in him has changed, all his previous force and belligerent speed supplanted by a steadier, slower rhythm. He kisses her as he thrusts, too, the tender intimacy of it confusing her even as she responds willingly to his sudden gentleness. It’s a chimera, she realises in a moment of heartache, a fantastical moment in time that will mean nothing as soon as it’s over and they start snapping and sniping at each other again – because she knows they will, and soon. They’re reaching a point where they can hardly bear to be in each other’s company for more than a few minutes, and that’s a tragedy it seems neither of them know how to fix.

He kisses her throat, the short bristle of his beard prickling against her sensitive skin, making her hyperaware of the soft caress of his lips. She wants to laugh; she wants to cry. And still the unrelenting rain cascades from the overcast sky.

“ _‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine’_ ,” Boyd quotes, his deep voice low and rough as he continues to thrust into her, “ _‘and rage the likes of which you would not believe’_.”

Immediately recognising the words, Grace shivers, and not from the temperature drop caused by the storm, or from the clingy dampness of his shirt under her palms. “Boyd…”

He kisses her again, nowhere near as gently, and then changes position a fraction before once again increasing the tempo of his thrusts. It feels different – not just the faster pace, but the angle at which he’s driving into her, each stroke hitting the deep, sweet spot that makes her clench around him, makes her tighten her grip on his shoulders and begin a tormented mantra of soft curses and desperate pleas. The increasing tension in her thigh muscles causes her legs to shake, but Grace doesn’t notice – and if she did, she wouldn’t care. Somehow he’s pushing her closer and closer towards the wondrous release she didn’t really expect to obtain, and when he reaches down between them and his fingers go to work with skilful precision, her focus narrows even further. She aches, she shudders, and Boyd doesn’t falter, not once; he just keeps thrusting, hard and deep, his strong fingers working in dexterous counterpoint until she knows that if he doesn’t change what he’s doing, if he just keeps going just a little longer…

He grunts, a deep, carnal noise, one that’s repeated as he loses his rhythm in a rapid series of short, staccato thrusts that suddenly cease as his whole body goes rigid for several agonisingly long seconds. Grace knows he’s spent long before his head crashes down onto her shoulder, and she resents him for it. So close – so damned close that she’s still burning – but the unreliable promise of intense pleasure is escaping her with bitter and apparently irrevocable speed. She hates him, then. Hates him for every high-handed action, every contemptuous dismissal of her ideas, her suggestions, her thoughts. Hates him for being _him_ , a quick-tempered, highly-strung emotional casualty of a man who seems incapable of seeing how much he means to her, how much she could love him if he only allowed it.

Boyd lifts his head, and just for a second Grace thinks he can read all her dark angry thoughts – and more – with perfect clarity. Whether he can or not, it’s an unsettling feeling, as if she’s laid bare far more than just her body to him. Not prepared to give him the satisfaction of begging for what she thinks she’s owed, she’s about to suggest – coldly – that if the rain is set in for the duration, it’s time to accept the fact, tidy themselves up, and head back to the car, but he doesn’t give her the chance. He shifts position again, whether to stretch his back or to gain more traction, she’s not sure, and then he resumes thrusting, somehow still as hard as iron inside her. Without elegance or drama, hate twists in on itself and dies, replaced by the familiar pangs of what she refuses to name. Slow and steady starts to quicken again, and if the movement of Boyd’s hips isn’t quite as thrilling and urgent as it was, the experienced strum of his fingers is much more attentive, driving her back into that crazy limbo place where heat and tension combine into a delicious, hungry yearning.

Almost there. _Almost there_.

Part of her mind – a very small part – is not just aware of the rapt, fascinated way Boyd is watching her, but is attempting to analyse it, too. What does he _really_ think and feel? What mysteries does he keep so well-hidden from her? What really drives his snarling aggression, his need to fight and needle and undermine?

She comes in violent, gasping waves, her internal muscles contracting hard around him as the long moments of shaking ecstasy turn her into nothing more than a puppet jerking on invisible strings. She wants to laugh, she wants to sob, and when he kisses her she responds with every bit of force and emotion she possesses, trying to push into him an understanding of everything she feels, everything she sees, wants, and knows.

Perhaps he holds her for hours, minutes, or just for mere seconds. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the solid weight of his body, the fierce reality of the warm living muscle and bone against her.

He guides her easily, slipping free from her body before she’s really aware of what he’s doing and pivoting with considerable strength to reverse their positions so that he’s resting on the smooth stone ledge, and her body’s supported so that she can relax against him, into him, her back now against his chest. The lake before them has become a blur of ripples from the raindrops tearing into its formerly smooth surface, and it’s stark and dark in contrast to the vibrant wet green grass of the slope that leads down to it.

“ _‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage the likes of which you would not believe’_ ,” Boyd says again, just behind her ear. His voice is soft, but there’s steel beneath the velvet as he adds, “ _’If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other’ –_ Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein._ Though your attribution is wrong – Shelley never wrote those words.”

“I know,” she admits, her voice not much above a whisper. It was a minor mistake, one made by an over-eager proof-reader, easily corrected in the next edition. The words remain apposite, however, whatever their source. And none of it matters because… he knows. God help her, he _knows_.

_“‘The man and the monster cannot exist side-by-side unless one always counterbalances the other,’_ ” he continues. “ _‘Without balance the man invariably becomes consumed by the monster.’_ – Doctor Grace Foley, _The Laws of Love and Rage_. Is that what I am, Grace? A monster?”

That damned book. Cathartic to write, dangerous to publish. A millstone around her neck that might yet drown her. Might drown them both. Grace stares at the rain-beaten surface of the lake, and thinks about him and her, and the clay-stained skeletal remains so recently dredged from the stinking mud by a team of startled groundsmen.

“Well?” Boyd pushes, no longer so quiet. His grip on her has tightened, but not in a comforting, possessive way. He’s holding her prisoner, the way he always has. That this time it’s physical doesn’t matter a damn. Fighting him is still as pointless as it’s ever been. She’d curse the day they met if it would change anything. But she wouldn’t. His voice is raw as he commands, “ _Tell_ _me_.”

The air is thick with the scent of rain on parched earth, of wet grass, of the old stones protecting them from the deluge. Of the smell of him, of her. Of them. Grace takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly. His brutal strength is not just a prison, it’s a sanctuary, too. “Man, monster, what does it matter? We are who we are.”

“Not good enough.”

“It’s all I can tell you.”

“Oh, come _on_ …” he scoffs, “even if you weren’t a damned psychologist that would still be complete bollocks.”

“It’s not my place to judge you.”

“No,” he says, not loosening his grip, “no, it’s not. But that’s never stopped you before, and it didn’t stop you publishing your opinion of me for all the world to see, did it?”

“You’re not a monster, Boyd.” She stares at the heavy grey clouds scudding overhead, at the driving rain that looks as if it’s never going to stop. “But neither am I.”

Boyd grunts, but to her surprise it seems the noise is a simple acknowledgement, not a disparaging criticism. She’s even more surprised, startled, even, when he places the softest, most precise of kisses against the sensitive curve of her neck and shoulder. It’s the very last thing she would ever have expected, and it causes a sharp pang of something very like regret to tear through her. It’s made worse by the resigned way he asks, “Are you right, Grace? Am I really on the road to complete self-destruction?”

She closes her eyes, concentrates on the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. It’s not easy to say, “If you’re asking for my professional opinion, then I think there are… things… that you urgently need to address. Before it really _is_ too late.”

“Things…?”

“Anger,” she replies without hesitation. “Denial, depression. Grief.”

“Oh God…” he says, his tone both petulant and patronising. It’s a mistake.

Taking advantage of the way his grip has unconsciously loosened, Grace pushes herself away from him and turns in the same irate movement. Staring straight at him, she demands, “Why ask the damned question if you’re not prepared to listen to the answer?”

He seems more interested in rearranging, zipping, and buckling than he is in responding to her, and she has to fight against the powerful urge to seize his broad shoulders and physically shake him. It wouldn’t do any good, even if she dared try it. He’s too obstinate, too defiant. Just too dysfunctional.

To hell with the rain, and to hell with what may or may not be a crime scene. To hell with _him_ , in fact. She’s going to head back to the car whether he follows or not, but not until she’s had one last attempt to get through to him. Drawing another deep breath, Grace finds the calmest tone she can to say, “I’m sorry if the book’s got under your skin, but I’m _not_ sorry I wrote it. If you recognise yourself, Boyd, well, maybe that just proves that I’m right and you have problems that aren’t going to just go away if you ignore them for long enough.”

His lip curls in a sneer. “Thank you for the consultation, _Doctor_.”

The free-spirited young woman inside her breaks through once again, driving her to turn and stalk away into the rain, throwing just two angry words over her shoulder at him as she goes: “Screw you.”

There’s no reason for him to shout despite the background noise of the downpour, but that doesn’t stop him. He bellows after her, “Monster or not, you just bloody _did_. Where’s your fucking moral high ground now, Grace…?”

The angry tears that start to sting in her eyes don’t stand a chance against the rain. She’s glad.

_\- the end -_

 

* * *

 

_“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”_ – Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (movie), 1994.  
(Often wrongly attributed to Shelley’s original text.)

 


End file.
